


Oh, leave me not alone

by abrawmclaren



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Ethan, IMF, Injury Recovery, Mission Impossible: Fallout spoilers, Multi, Past Relationship(s), Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-02 10:24:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15794598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrawmclaren/pseuds/abrawmclaren
Summary: Ethan recovers following the events at Kashmir, and deals with where the chips have fallen.WARNING: Spoilers for Mission Impossible: Fallout





	1. I saw God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erika Sloane, Director of Special Activities for the CIA, resigns.

Erika Sloane is partial to a good heel, and the way her Vera Wangs crack against the pavement under her set an appropriate cadence for today's errand.

A single sheet of stark-white stationary dangles from one manicured hand; she hadn't even bothered with the discretion of a file. It will, after all, be added to her personnel file along with every other remarkable event across the life of an otherwise blemish-free career. None of what she had done previously mattered anymore; it was only here, now, when the cold of Kashmir was just beginning to lift from her (admittedly older) bones that she understood what she had to do.

"Sir." She says the words as though she's ordering a glass of chardonnay. "We need to talk."

Erika Sloane is partial to a good heel, and she's also partial to brevity; even when it comes to speaking with the President of the United States.

"Your actions leading up to Ethan Hunt's last stand in Kashmir are - impressive. Grossly short-sighted, but impressive." His voice, like so many other old, white men, is unremarkable. She places the stationary on the table that separates them; he doesn't make a move to even look at it. Their meeting place had been arranged by the Secret Service days ago, in a greasy cistern not unlike the one she'd shut down after Walker and Hunley had confronted Ethan. She shudders at the memory; luckily, the President doesn't notice. She's already counted five Secret Service agents lurking in the shadows. This shouldn't unnerve her, but it does; and in this, her choice is affirmed.

"What I did was obstruct an otherwise successful operation."

"No; that's what August Walker did. You made it right."

Erika shakes her head. "With respect, Walker was right under my nose. He fed me a line about Hunt I desperately wanted to believe because I was tired. That isn't right, sir; it's lazy."

The President shakes his head. "If resignation is what you want, I can't and won't stop you. Your record of service is impeccable, and if you want to count this as a failure, that's your right. I don't consider this a failure, and neither does the CIA. Nor would any sensible American."

"I thank you, sir, for a long and distinguished career."

"You have my hardy endorsement no matter what you decide to do."

She nods at him, pushing the letter closer over the table between them. Slowly, the President reaches out and takes it, one of the shadowy servicemen stepping forward to retrieve it.

With nothing else to say, she leaves the way she came.

There was one more thing to do: apologize to Ethan Hunt.


	2. Two Roads Diverge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ethan receives an unlikely guest in an unlikely locale.

He doesn't believe in God; at least, not in an Abrahamic sense. And maybe it's because of the painkillers he begrudgingly takes for four broken ribs and a left quadricep torn to ribbons; maybe it's because the sun on that mountaintop was just that relieving after pulling himself to the precipice and barely managed to save the world yet again. Either way, he sees something new in himself and is loathe not to call it divine.

There are usually whispers after a mission. Small reminders that his team is alive and well, sprinkled in between the long silence of the requisite two-week internal investigations. He assumes that cleaning up the mess in London and Paris will take a substantial amount of time, to say nothing of the havoc that would be the CIA after Walker's secondary identity as John Lark was brought to light. How many had covered that up across how many governments? The thought is dizzying.

And so he's stopped in St. Thomas More parish every day after a rainy morning jog to offer some sort of silent confession, and to ask for absolution he knows will never come.

It is this morning, he knows, that something is different. Some heavy, humid thing hanging in the air just above his head.

A familiar voice; he hears her before he sees her. Normally, the rector fusses at the lectern or wrings his hands over the army of candles, straight as a battalion during inspection, their flames guttering in the cold rush of air that flies through the small, old church. But he's alone, and he knows why even before the wooden pew behind him creaks with a slight but added weight.

"Fate whispers to the warrior."

He breathes in; it hurts. It all hurts. "There's a storm coming."

"And are you still that storm, Ethan Hunt?"

He considers the question. Kashmir is still fresh in his mind, the downturned curve of Erika's mouth as she pinned him with the kind of look that could turn a man into a pillar of salt without looking back over his shoulder. Erika Sloane is not one to stand on ceremony. He begrudgingly admires her, but only when no one is looking.

"Organized religion isn't your thing, Hunt."

"No" he admits slowly. "It isn't."

"Me either."

He knows she hadn't come to make small talk, and that she _should_ be in D.C. running the standard procedure for the aftermath of a mission. That she's here now signals nothing less than catastrophe.

"I know what you want to ask me. Things in Washington are - a little involved, Hunt."

"I'm sure they are."

"You have no idea. I have six governments to whom I must answer, to say nothing of the fifteen CIA operatives I lost and whose condolence letters I have not even begun writing."

"I'm sorry."

Sloane's laugh is drawn butter melted over silk. "You think I came here for an apology. It's the other way around, Ethan."

At this point, he turns around. "You shouldn't be here. The Apostles are still at large. They're decentralized because of Walker, but -"

Sloane holds up a hand. "Stop, Hunt. Just stop."

He turns back around. Anyone could be watching. The priest has been gone for an inordinate amount of time.

"Luther and Benji are out. Normally I would have left this errand to Hunley, but we just pulled his bloated corpse out of a ratway in Paris. His body cam footage is real interesting."

"Wait - what are you talking about?"

"Luther is fawning over his first grandchild, and Benji? As we speak, he's at Scotland Yard negotiating a whopper of an analytics contract. We're talking into the millions, Hunt. They're out. Both of them."

"Normally I would have heard from them by now." He doesn't even bother trying to mask his sadness.

"It's the job, Ethan. They come and they go. Those two came a little closer to the bitter end more times than they had signed up for, and I can't fault them that. I bet Hunley wouldn't have, either."

"It doesn't make it easier."

Sloane moves to the pew in front of Ethan, and he watches her move with a familiar no-nonsense gait he's come to hate and respect. When she sits, the air of authority that usually accompanies a visit by the Special Activities Director of the CIA seems to be absent.

"Am I speaking with Director Sloane, or Erika?"

She blinks twice. "In two weeks' time, my name and my title as they are presently will be gone. Just like Luther and Benji; just like Julia."

"You resigned."

"This morning in a dank hovel in D.C. before you even thought of opening your eyes, from my printer to the President's hands in under an hour."

"At least you're efficient."

When she laughs again, it is mirthless and almost cruel. Ethan scans her eyes, finally, and comes away with nothing but self-loathing.

"It is to that efficiency I owe an entire career before the crow I dined on in Kashmir. I don't think there will ever be a day I will wake up and forgive myself for August Walker. For how close we came."

"It's the job."

"Not to me it isn't. While we sit here right now, Luther is holding a squalling newborn in his big, strong arms and probably weeping for the relief of it all. Benji is accepting the job offer of a lifetime, maybe even thinking that his life has found enough stability to be able to commit to a cable company, let alone to find happiness of his own, and" she leans forward, her dark eyes full to the brim of something Ethan doesn't want to recognize "I very nearly sent you to a prison so far above the law of the land that not even the President knows about it. You get me?"

He nods. "Is that where Lane went?"

"Lane is with MI6, and he's damn lucky of it. He wouldn't last five minutes where you would have gone."

"Inhumane cruelty. Charming."

"This is our reality, Hunt. This is why we do what we do: so the rest of the world doesn't have to worry about plutonium bombs and torture prisons."

Their eyes lock, just for a moment, and Ethan feels as though he's never seen Erika less guarded. There is anger behind her eyes, but it is not directed at him. He recognized his mistake in Paris and played the long game to correct it, coming right down to the wire; even still, it all worked out in the end.

But how many more of those does he have in him?

"And Ilsa?"

"Safe and alive. That's all you need to know for now."

He's used to that part; the one where he has to detach for the greater good. Doesn't mean he has to like it.

"History is replete with men who see God on mountaintops, but that doesn't mean that you have to be one of them, Hunt. I know" she leans forward conspiratorially "that this job, this way of life, is the only thing you know. And I will never be able to express how regretful I am for the choices I have made, so believe me when I say that I will not lose sleep over telling you to get out now only for that to fall on deaf ears."

"I'm not going anywhere." He hears himself saying the words, feeling the grief of not knowing where Ilsa is or when he might see her again. For now, this rainy little hamlet near Ithaca is fine; but it isn't permanent. Nothing is ever permanent.

"Then I will make sure that the new director has your file memorized, Hunt. Good luck to you; and thank you for your continued service to this country."

Dumbfounded, Ethan feels himself nod as the stately woman rises to walk away. She doesn't look over her shoulder as she goes, her heels hitting the stone floor underneath sounding more like a Clydesdale than one woman barely over fifty-four kilos. He gets to his feet with some soreness, the priest having returned to his post but looking ashen-faced. Ethan half-smiles at him; obviously there were others who had come with Erika; she was never without a retinue of operatives. Their little conversation in the small parish would have been disastrous if overheard, and while the CIA tended to keep to the shadows, Ethan is still unnerved from feeling like a caged animal.

He leaves the church and walks back toward the townhouse he's rented under one of the many government-provided names he's been given, with some equally doctored identification and a completely fabricated voter and tax records to match.

It isn't even difficult anymore, this part of his life. Waiting two weeks for governments to be slapped back together and infrastructures to be repaired before he traipses off to the next destination to kill the next mark, but for what? There's no end game, no way to tie so many separate incidents of near catastrophe together. There are simply that many bad people in the world, and it's his job to remove them as a doctor would a gangrenous limb.

But what does the job matter anymore when the two people you counted on are gone? When Julia is married to some Snidely Do-Right doctor with no idea what it will take to protect her.

Walker's gone. She doesn't need protecting. No one will connect her with him, and when Ethan realizes this, it's the last straw.

Everyone is gone. It's over.


	3. with none but the Potomac to hear us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ethan is recovered in body, but not in spirit. When he meets Hunley's successor, Erika's parting words suddenly take on more clarity.

Ethan is summoned from the small parish in Ithaca exactly three weeks after his encounter with Erika. He does the math in his head as he packs: Hunley's been dead for two weeks, and that third week seems a bit gratuitous unless they had someone waiting in the wings. IMF doesn't have an office, but they share administrative space with their sister-organization, the CIA - which explains the summons to to D.C. on a fifteen year-old Cesna. Moving him around the country hasn't ever been a problem; the small craft will take off in exactly forty minutes from a well-hidden landing strip in the woods some twenty clicks beyond where he'd been living.

He could be bothered by the quick handoff, but that's how the government works. When you decide you've had enough, there's always someone waiting for you to get up from the table. Erika Sloane, while ruthlessly productive in her role, was still replaceable. That they obviously found someone to step in after Hunley's unforeseen passing as quickly as they did - that's just how it all works. He still feels empty, still has questions for Erika - wondering how she could have willingly thrown away the only person Ethan felt was equipped enough to command the IMF. Perhaps that had been part of the apology Erika had given him three weeks ago. Ethan caught himself wondering where she was, and stopped himself cold. Some dark nights aren't worth walking into. She, like the mistakes made at Kashmir and shortly before, is gone.

On top of that, he'd hoped for at least a signal in those three weeks; something from Luther, maybe an encrypted message sent discretely through his IPA from Benji. Nothing. Complete radio silence, which he had both expected and feared. Admittedly, he'd thought that maybe Erika was lying to him. Hell, he hadn't even truly believed that Hunley was dead until he watched part of his televised memorial at the Washington National Cathedral. Seeing his onyx coffin surrounded by white roses had put everything into perspective.

Ethan slings the duffel bag over his shoulder, tossing the house key into an urn full of weeds and dry dirt on his way out. He's dressed in his standard garb: Levi's, a black thermal long-sleeved t-shirt, and a black leather Calvin Klein bomber jacket. It's raining, as it has most of the time he's been in the little town outside of Ithaca, but he doesn't feel the droplets on his skin. He doesn't feel much of anything as he nods curtly to the faceless pilot responsible for getting him to D.C. in one piece. He secures his bag in the undercarriage, but makes sure to holster a 9mm under his jacket - old habits die hard, and one never knows what could be lurking. Waiting.

The flight is unremarkable. Images of piloting the helicopter in Kashmir flash in and out as the rain pelts against the cockpit and hull; he offers to help the pilot, who simply ignores him. He'd probably been given strict orders not to talk to Ethan - and he can respect that, but it doesn't make it any less boring to travel for two hours.

When they land, it's after nightfall. His instructions were to wait at the East Potomac Day Docks number nine, so he makes his way there and only barely manages to ignore the aroma of dark roasted espresso. As usual, he's got deadlines.

He's not there for long, pretending to be interested in the iPhone in his hand, when a fit man with an angular face and a military-style haircut (the kind you get for the rest of your life after you get out) approaches him. Even in the dark, he already knows. His suspicions are confirmed when the man opens his mouth.

"Ethan Hunt, I presume."

Before him stands William Brandt. Ethan doesn't have a lot of time to hide his shock and knows he's done a bad job of it anyway, so he abandons the attempt and - despite his better judgment - pulls the taller man into a tight embrace.

"You're Hunley's replacement?" It's not meant to sound insulting; it's an honest question, perhaps with a mixture of honest surprise. He lets Will go, and takes a couple of steps back. The man hadn't seemed to have aged, but that's due in large part to no longer being in the field. "I heard you were an analyst."

"Let's take a walk" Brandt replies, and they set out for the darker parts of the pier, parallel to the Potomac. Sirens wail in the distance. "I should tell you how sorry I am. About Julia."

"Funny you should mention that. Julia's alive; ran into her, kind of."

"You don't just 'run into' Julia. Where the hell was she?"

"Kashmir."

"You're shitting me."

Ethan laughs. "No; it's a long story. But she was in danger, and now she's not. And she's married."

Will scoffs and lights a cigarette. "Jesus, man. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's all behind us, now. And - thanks. For what you did in Croatia. I don't think I ever properly expressed my gratitude."

"Part of the job, Hunt."

They walk a little longer, neither of them speaking. Will finishes the first cigarette and lights another, taking a longer drag and exhaling as he speaks. "I didn't want to take Hunley's job at first."

"Why'd you change your mind?"

"You."

Ethan stops. When Will looks at him, cigarette dangling between his lips, it's with a kind of resignation - not unlike Erika in the church three weeks ago.

"Sloane is out. So are Luther and Benji, so don't you tell me -"

"I can't 'tell' you anything, Hunt. And that's not why I'm here. Look, you're what - fifty? If being in the field is what you want, I've got a plane headed to a hacker hive in Reykjaivic with your name on it, but I want some answers first."

Will was his equal in every way but title and position, now. Ethan wracks his brain to come up with a well-packaged series of lies, but he can't do that to a man who willingly put himself on the brink of death with a squad of Serbians who had kill orders. "What can I clarify for you?"

"You can tell me why you fucked up with that plutonium. I read the file from Kashmir; that whole thing could have been avoided."

"You hated the responsibility of the field."

"I need to know, Hunt."

"My ribs and quad are healed. That's all you need to know."

"Goddammit, man." Brandt rakes a hand through his hair and stops walking. "This isn't about that. IMF put out an internal communique about the status of each of their active agents. Your name was on the short list for non-deployment due to age, which I barely managed to convince the President was a contrived system to keep you out of the game for no good reason. He agrees, but you owe answers."

"I made a choice to sacrifice Luther, probably even Benji when the van was compromised and no one showed with the money. It was a matter of timing."

"Yeah. And the reigning belief that you're invincible."

"That too."

"If I come away from this little walkabout tonight with a solid belief that you can handle the job, I'll send you to Iceland tonight."

"What do I have to do?"

At this, Ethan detects a definite shift in Will's demeanor. He seems distant, as though he and Ethan are standing entire kilometers apart. "You have to forget them, Ethan. I know that they were the backbone of what you do; they were a large part of the reason you succeeded, and yeah, I'd say that being disavowed threw a wrench in your game, but you all recovered. You saved the world in Kashmir, perhaps on a bigger scale than ever before. This self-righteous routine of putting the mission behind your personal feelings has to stop. You have to grow thicker skin, and you have to start now. I don't want to end up like Hunley."

"He made his choices. He knew it was dangerous coming to Paris, but he did it anyway because we believed in the same things. Will, you can't tell me you don't believe in the sanctity of agents' lives over the mission. If we don't have agents, we don't have a mission."

"It's not a debate. You have to work solo until we can find a team to back you with half the experience of Dunn and Stucker, and that's going to take some time. Shit. Don't be like Sloane. Don't create a career of regrets."

Ethan looks over Brandt's shoulder, over the black Potomac. He's cold, but not like he was on the mountain in Kashmir; the muscles of his injured leg are shaking from the strain of standing in one position for as long as he had, and suddenly he feels every year he's aged. "Fine. That's - that's fair."

Will essays a look of satisfaction, although the tension in his shoulders still brings them up around his ears. They resume walking for a time, until Brandt turns around to face Ethan in front of a foreboding black BMW S5. "The hackers in Reykjaivic are the technological frontmen for The Apostles. Several of Sloane's old guard went to weed them out while you were in London, but everyone got recalled when Walker was discovered. The last few weeks have seen a shakeup in the CIA; I trust you know about her resignation."

"She paid me a visit near Ithaca."

Will nods, the distant glaze of his eyes shining in the night. "I figured she would. Probably to cover her ass. This is strictly off the record, but she knew about Walker. The whole time. Only reason she's still alive is that you are."

Ethan's heart stops for a few beats. "Why didn't she yank us before Paris?"

"Hunley. He flew there against a direct order from the President, fully intending on interfering with the investigation because he knew what Walker would do. Sloane was prepared to do more than disavow you; she was ready to take you out."

"Is Erika an Apostle?"

"No, hell no. She was a snake in the grass, waiting for Walker to fuck up badly enough to get hauled back to Washington where she'd expose him and send him off to be tortured for the rest of his natural life. You were bait."

Ethan's head is swimming, but in amongst the rapid-fire thoughts as each dot connects, he realizes: "Because of Croatia. Julia."

"Yeah. She thought you'd gone soft, so her intent was to kill two birds with one stone - if you'll pardon the expression."

"Hunley died to protect me."

"He knew he would. The body cam footage we pulled from him played an audio-only recording of what he said to Sloane right before he boarded the plane to meet you guys. She said that the only way she'd spare you is if Hunley resigned or died; I don't think she meant it literally, but when he goes to a shakedown with no firearm, it makes you think."

"No, Will. That wasn't a mistake. And if she wanted me dead, she could have just killed me in Ithaca and been done with it." Ethan wonders now why he's still alive; and it doesn't take him long to realize why.

"She didn't kill me because she got Luther and Benji out. Hunley's dead, and you're back but not in the field. Julia is off the radar for IMF protection, so I'm isolated. She knew what that would do to me."

"She knew what that would _mean_ for you. Now all you've got to do is tie up loose ends with The Apostles, and then -" he stops. Ethan knows what he was going to say, but he can't give an agent in good standing an order to leave the IMF. Not without due cause. "You can decide what to do when the time comes. For now, you've got a flight to catch."

"I take it my answers were satisfactory."

Will unlocks the BMW. The headlights illuminate his face, making the lines seem deeper. "You put it together like I knew you would. Don't hold this against Sloane, and definitely don't hold it against Hunley."

"I should have known" Ethan calls to him as the new IMF Secretary gets into the driver's side. The only reply is the smoothness when the engine starts; the tires grinding against gravely pavement as he backs out.

A car comes for him five minutes later. Another aged Cesna; another landing strip in the middle of the woods adjacent this time to the Potomac, and another wordless, expressionless pilot.

He spends the first two hours of the flight checking his gear, thinking back to when he saved Walker's life in the clouds above Paris. He'd make a similar jump, this time straight down to land on the coast near Seltjarnarnes. From there, he'd take a motorcycle (he should be tired of driving them, but he's not) to the city proper. It was odd to him, admittedly, that the mission wasn't cutting as close to the wire as he was used to; then again, he didn't need to coordinate with Luther nor Benji, which cut down his prep time significantly.

Had this been Hunley's problem with his methods? That the team slowed him down?

He shakes the thought, and nods off until an alarm will sound to signal the jump. He dreams of the wedding on the lakefront in the mountains; he dreams of standing on that mountain in Kashmir, alone, looking off toward the rising sun.

In Ethan's subconscious mind, he's already let them go. Like pushing a small boat away from a mist-shrouded dock, he allows them to become ghosts. It's the job. Just the job.


	4. John the Baptist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new player in the game that are The Apostles surfaces while Ethan storms the hacker hideout in Reykjavik. As usual, things don't go according to plan - but the diversion is begrudgingly welcome.

A mission for IMF will require at least twenty individuals Ethan refers to as 'setters'. Typically, they're low-level CIA operatives who are flown to various points to drop equipment and vehicles he'll need throughout the life of a mission; motorcycles, boats, sniper rifles. Shit like that. The setters don't have the clearance to know _why_ they're leaving millions of dollars of resources literally lying around, or for whom, but they're chosen for their discretion and their expendable nature.

Ethan's kept track: thirty setters have died since Croatia. He doesn't even want to think about how many close calls were involved in leaving a motorcycle so close to the hacker enclave in Reykjavik, but he assumes at least one person died when they were discovered to be in the right place at the wrong time. His point of egress provides an ample view of a shiny, matte black BMW motorcycle, courtesy of one such setter, and he's already collected the terabytes (he idly wonders what kind of hacker doesn't bother with a machine with an internal tera - probably more mobile, but less accessible ultimately) and set off the reagent that will cause the nerve gas he'd unleashed to clear. All fifteen hackers' spines were now liquified thanks to the advanced and compact biological warfare he had access to, but it doesn't make him feel better knowing that he'd used it. Sure, it was a quick and easy job; but it seemed inhumane. All they did was encrypt and pass data around all day - why kill them so that the whites of their eyes were yellow and the entire building reeked of sweat and desperation and men who soiled themselves in their last moments on earth?

He's irritated for the third time during this mission as he hoists the duffel full of equipment over his shoulder and begins the short journey to Geirsnef. He'll romp through the forest for forty clicks, and take a helicopter to St. John's in Newfoundland. He's instructed to wait there for Brandt to contact him, but the thought occurs that perhaps he'll deviate from that course.

He hasn't decided. Edinburgh is closer to Reykjavik than Newfoundland, but how far does he want to press the good graces of the new IMF Secretary? Does it even matter?

As the miles that separate the city proper from Geirsnef dwindle, he notices a road block on I49 just ahead of him. Ethan swears loudly as he breaks, coming to a stop in front of a slender, dour-looking policewoman. Switching to Icelandic, he asks her why the road is blocked.

The bill of her cap is pushed over her eyes; the color of her hair tucked up into the cap is unmistakable. When she answers him in English, all doubt is washed away and he feels a mixture of relief and anger settle to the bottom of his gut.

"The helicopter is gone; someone knew about this." Ilsa Faust looks at him then, her bright eyes arresting and pleading all at once. "We don't have much time after I get you into the checkpoint station, so you need to make a show of me pushing you along." Ethan nods, and she grabs the duffel and cuffs him. "Don't look anywhere else but straight ahead."

Once inside the makeshift security checkpoint office, Ilsa rips the cover off her head and tosses it onto a dirty, olive metal desk. "Have you ever heard of John the Baptist?"

"Uh" Ethan holds up his cuffed wrists "do you mind, first?"

Ilsa sighs heavily and unlocks the handcuffs, explaining as she goes when she notices the look of confusion Ethan tries hard to hide "John the Baptist is the harbinger of The Apostles. He was responsible for recruiting Solomon Lane, and is none too pleased about Lane being in the custody of MI6." She brandishes an envelope from her thick, down policeman's jacket and waves it toward Ethan. He takes it, still utterly confounded. "This is from him. Sloane had it, and it was one of the documents seized when MI6 conducted an audit to collect anything unique to The Apostles. Whoever this is mentions you in particular."

Ethan reads the letter, a lump forming in his throat as he goes. The letter is written in impeccable cursive, a fountain-tip pen in flowing, blemish-free black ink. The stationary its written on feels like velvet in between his fingers. Whoever wrote this is very affluent and obscenely well-read.

_Mr. Hunt,_

_It was my hope that we wouldn't get this far; that is to say, that you have progressed to the point where I have to mobilize John Lark himself to silence you._

_You were never any good at playing the game; at counting your losses, or letting those you loved go. What kind of life is it, loving you? Surely you must know, Mr. Hunt, that anyone who gets too close will be used as weapons against you._

_I propose a solution: don't dig deeper than the depths you've already uncovered. Do not be so foolhardy as to think that any information you've found since will point you in the right direction; you will search and search, and those few who do remain as loyal friends to you will die until you stop._

_Julia Meade, Isla Faust, Benjamin Dunn, Luther Stucker, William Brandt. We know everything there is to know about them, and will not hesitate to pick them off one by one. Make the right choice, Mr. Hunt; for those you love, and for yourself._

_Sincerely,_

_John the Baptist_

Ethan's had enough training in emotion masking to feel the blood course through his veins with a speed that only signals anger, but now is not the time nor the place. Ilsa continues, discarding the uniform to reveal the calling card of IMF: all-black recon gear. Easy to move in, adaptable to all weather conditions, water-resistant. "I've been trying to find you for weeks."

"I was in Ithaca. When Sloane came to tell me she'd resigned, I'd only been out of the hospital for a week."

"Well, that cost us some time; but it's nothing we can't overcome."

She motions to the back door of the checkpoint, and Ethan snaps to life and follows her. It's cold in Iceland, especially so as they're so near the ocean, but fall has faded into winter there and a good three inches of snow meets his boots. Ilsa continues, leading them further west until they reach the small inlet between the capitol proper and Geirsnef. "We take this across. The checkpoint was erected to find whomever killed fifteen computer scientists in a nondescript office building in the capitol. Iceland's government is unforgiving, even of international affairs, and they wouldn't hesitate to kill you before John the Baptist was ever able to finish the job." They climb into the inflatable boat, Ethan tossing the duffel inside. His stomach turns as she searches his eyes, trying to pull the question he wants to ask from their depths before he finds the gumption to voice it.

"Why?"

Ilsa throws the motor into gear, and they pull away from the mist-shrouded shore. "I knew it wasn't finished, and I didn't want to walk away completely after I heard Benji and Luther were out."

Ethan suddenly feels sick, his stomach in so many knots he can't begin to relax himself enough. "I know" he mutters "but you said that once Lane was in the custody of MI6, you were finished. Free."

"I'm still free, Ethan. I chose this because Luther told me that the best thing I could do for you was to walk away, and for a second I believed him." The waning daylight plays against her face, wisps of hair moving over her high cheekbones. She's beautiful now, freezing on the saltwater that stings his eyes as the small craft gains distance toward the next shore. "And what did Luther tell you?"

"That Julia was important to you; that she had been your wife. I had no idea, Ethan. And I can't imagine how hard that is, but I do know that it must feel like what happened when I had to leave you in Kashmir."

Ethan's heart beats slower, the anger quieting to a slowly pulsing throb. Now all he feels is a kind of attraction and relief that burns brightly in the coming dark. They pull the raft onto the shore, working in tandem quickly and efficiently. The setters came out far; there are two dirt bikes parked and waiting near the tree line.

"Wait - if MI6 let you go, how did they know there would be two of us?"

"I called in a favor. Sloane's final act of goodwill."

Ethan laughs in spite of himself. "I should have known." They mount the bikes and speed off down one of the trails taking them further into the forest. There will be no more talk now, and maybe he needs to trust that she's not in over her head; trust he didn't extend to her in Paris, and for which he is suddenly and sharply regretful.

He notices signs of trouble when the tree boughs begin to move erratically, against the direction and inordinate to the speed of the wind. He makes a quick decision, and splits off from Ilsa who is riding in front of him - she continues to go north, and he goes east. That's when he hears it - gunshots coming from their left, but whomever is shooting is ill-prepared for ranged combat; by the sounds of it, a Glock is the culprit.

Ilsa breaks hard, downing a grove of ferns and corrects her course to align with Ethan. No sooner has she started off toward her counterpart than a second, better-aimed shot takes out her rear tire. Ethan hears the popping sound, looking over his shoulder frantically to put eyes on Ilsa, but she's fallen below the forest floor and he can't see her. He zig zags to avoid any of the Glock discharges, but what he heard pop Ilsa's tire was a sniper. They're sitting ducks.

It's sheer dumb luck that Ilsa's managed to tuck herself well enough under the cover of the foliage on the forest floor, popping up and grabbing the back of the bike as Ethan speeds passed. He pulls her up behind him, the bike designed to seat only the driver; but her knees hug his waist and she's small enough to find enough space on the bike, so Ethan tells her to hold on while he finds true north again, breaks hard, and zig zags as much as fallen trees and other fecund debris will let him.

He can't tell how long it is to reach the clearing, but by the time they do he can feel his lips cracking from the salty cold wind whipping through the clearing. A lone helicopter awaits, and when the pilot sees them he starts the engine. Ethan drives with all the abandon of a banshee on the moors before slamming on the brake just before the hatch, skidding in sideways and tossing the duffel, then Ilsa, and finally rolling into the cabin himself. His heavy breathing is the only thing he can hear; the pilot is shouting at Ilsa, who is trying to coax Ethan into a seated position so she can strap him in.

That damned letter. Ilsa came so close to dying -

"Ethan, are you listening? We're being rerouted to Edinburgh. It's closer, and we won't have to fly over Icelandic airspace and attract attention."

"Edinburgh" he repeats. That's where Benji is. He banishes the thought before it can fully form as Ilsa continues. "We're to meet with Brandt there. He has alternate instructions, although I'm not certain of my involvement moving forward."

"I thought you said you wanted to see this thing through."

"I do, especially after all of that."

Ethan, not knowing what else to say, reaches into the duffel and grabs the first terabyte his fingers graze. He unloads the laptop, plugging the USB into the port and waits for the information to begin downloading. Ilsa is staring at the bag - he follows her eyes to the telltale pill bottle unearthed by the external drive he'd liberated from the bag.

"Jesus, Ethan. Are you still that hurt after Kashmir?"

"My quad needed surgery."

"You'd better hope they don't drug test you."

"They won't."

As the contents of the drive begin to populate, a few words in particular jump out at him. "What is it?" Ilsa asks cautiously.

"Two of The Apostles are in Reykjavik, and the last one still at large is somewhere in the United States. There's no particular location for this one, though; I'm wondering if that isn't our John the Baptist."

"Maybe the other terabytes will contain other information. If that hacker hive is worth its salt, the information was spread out among them and backed up in a central location in the event that one of them was compromised. No one planned for all of them to be killed."

Ethan nods. "Contingencies aren't the strong suit of terrorists. They think they're invincible."

"So do you."

He stops reading and looks at her. It's not out of line for her to say so, but he wishes she hadn't. "Something happened to me. I can't put my finger on it. Something on that mountain dragged me back down to earth, and when I finally apologized to Julia, a big part of me just didn't exist anymore. Sloane's resignation, Luther and Benji getting out, all of that hit me within three weeks' time. My life as it was is over. I'm fifty-five years old, Ilsa. This is it."

"What the hell do you mean 'this is it'? You think Brandt is going to make demands so large that you eventually die putting this thing to rest? You know how the game works; they'll find someone else. They always find someone else, but do you think Will actually wants to replace you? Sloane put pressure on him when she resigned. She probably threw in a few well-articulated threats besides, so now isn't the time to start getting existential."

Ethan is loathe to admit it, but Ilsa is, as usual, right on the mark. He slams the laptop shut and schools her with what he thinks is an intimidating glare, but when she seems to return the look he's giving her with one of pure pity, he recoils. "Look, Brandt made it clear that he's not sending me on anything like Kashmir anymore. I hate it. I hate everything that's happened since, but I made a choice when I accepted this mission. Other agents will step forward; I can't control that, just like I can't control the passage of time or the fact that Julia is married to a younger, handsome doctor who seems to worship the ground she walks on and managed to save my life when I was carted back to the camp. I can't control that Luther and Benji are out. But what I can do is go back, give him this hardware, and move on to whatever's next."

"What happens when there is no 'next', Ethan?"

He doesn't want to provide an honest answer, so he kisses Ilsa Faust instead. It's like a forest fire, a burning hot punctuation mark to any of the lingering doubts still rolling around in both their heads. When she returns the kiss, he remembers that he has hands and ought to use them. When his fingertips graze her cheek, it's like an awakening. Ethan Hunt has never felt so alive, and in that brief moment, he is perhaps disposed to consider a life outside of the one he's living.

They don't speak for the remainder of the flight, offering apologetic glances when their eyes meet. Ethan knows that this conversation - and the meaning of their kiss besides, since he hadn't been present enough to do so in Kashmir - isn't over. Not by a long shot.


End file.
